


Spectating

by korik



Series: Misery Mine [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Casual Relationship, Changing Tenses, F/M, Flirting, Gen, Headcanon, How Do I Tag, Mentions of past abuse, Nudity, Past Abuse, Public Nudity, Teasing, also if you can't guess the headcanon the majority of Archadians are dark skinned, because I'm a terribad writer, it's not really about love so I head tilt, mutually beneficial relationship, pansexual Vayne is pansexual, this is always hard for me to do because how do I share headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2351828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korik/pseuds/korik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vayne is anywhere from 16 - 18, but decidedly before he kills his brothers during his 18th year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spectating

Through a haze, his eyes wander over the inlay of the ceiling above his prone form, the very air rippling and contorting, more like water than its usual self, fanning out, fragmenting when it dips back, the very sounds from those outside impacting the forms. He contracts his chest and breathes hard, puffing through chapped lips, counting the seconds, a smile playing with the corners of his mouth.

A delicate voice interrupts him, and he looks down, past his cheeks and nose, not bothering to lift his head. “Pardon?”

She is beautiful, soft and curves to highlight her family's prosperity, and a rarity among Archadians with her tousled yellow hair, purpled eyes that mirror the fading bruises around the olive skin of her neck. Some say its the Landisian influence on her looks, but he knows better. The weight of the bed they share shifts, and she lays down next to him, shuffling the remaining sheets to the floor as she does so, a hand resting on his chest. “It is too hot, my lord.”

“'Tis Summer, and Summer's affair is to be despairingly hot.” Though her naked body next to his own increases the heat that causes the elegant dancing above their heads, he does not reject her, his own disfigured fingers finding the soft digits of hers. “Upon our next meeting I shall have had many harsh words with Summer, and I shall bring you cold sweets to signify its inevitable apology.” Though the words are practiced and lifted from no less than three books he has read lately, her laughter is sincere.

She curls up higher, seemingly emboldened, and plants a kiss on his lips. “You do spoil me, my lord.”

The young man brushes aside her hair, but he cannot help withdrawing inwardly, the smile fading, unable to hold her gaze. He stares instead down the warmth and ampleness of her figure, feigning a more carnal interest to dissuade her from looking on him. Pain settles in his stomach from the bruises that remain no matter what attention he has given them. He changes the subject. “There is quite a ruckus out-of-doors – pray, what is it that the Imperial Army has sought to entertain itself with on this unfeeling day?”

Her delicate visage falls a little but, Ioanna, always wanting to please, recovers and puts a smile on her face. She retreats from his side, dragging his hand with her own to the window where she proceeds to unlatch the only closed side and push it open, gesturing down to the sparingly wrapped and sweating soldiers below in the full blaze of the humid light. “It is as it always is upon the estates of House Solidor – those who vie for the elite positions train where they are most likely to be seen.”

Though she waits for the Solidor youth to sit, and he does, she makes a noise of surprise when he gently entreats her to sit with him, chuckling at her observation. “You are wise.” He continues speaking however, once noting she has situated herself comfortably in the settee next to him, her legs drawing up to her chest. “Do you take to any of them?”

Ioanna flushed, eyes casting a glance briefly aside from the clashing figures below, more dust and sweat than recognizable Hume. Her eyes raise again, however, and he watches her face clench in concentration. “I am...unsure, my lord.”

He tilts his head and looks down into the yard himself, careful to tuck the impossible tangle of his hair behind his ears, across the rows of heads and sweating bodies, some paced far as they learn to handle live weaponry, identify markers and signals from those higher ranked than themselves. “Indeed, they do appear quaint.”

He jumps as Ioanna's hand flies out, finger pointing. “There! I do see a Judge Magister, my lord!”

A blink and he focuses further back beyond the low slung walls that enclose the training arena, away from a strange figure he had begun following in the mass of soldiers, and to the appearance of not one but - “How peculiar,” he cannot help but murmur in surprise, eyes widening. “There are _two_ of the illustrious Magisters striding forth.”

The young woman cannot help herself either, “And in such weather, too! They wear full armor, my lord, do you not think that odd?”

Vayne shakes his head, chuckling. “'tis the mark of a Magister – whether or not we deem it foolhardy is no business of our own. I prefer the nakedness of the moment to such a gilded cage.” He leans his chin upon his knee, tapping the stone framework of the sill with a finger. “What draws them here, I wonder?”

His companion shifts, coming close to him again, gently winding between his thighs for a better look at the Magisters. “I cannot see so well – pray, which are they? I confuse them so easily, my lord...”

Having picked up his head to retain his sight, he instead rests his cheek against the delicate strands of yellow hair, pointing at each one in turn as he speaks. “Worry not: upon our left is Judge Bergan, of House Bergan – “

The woman makes a noise of recognition. “I did hear of him once; terrible temper, that one.”

The young heir chuckles, wrinkling his nose as a stray bit of hair hunts for a nostril. “ - and the other is Judge Zecht, of which House I am certain you shall never guess.” He nearly squeaks as she tickles his ribs.

“You do tease me, my lord!” Her rising voice levels, quickly retreating, most likely out of fear of retribution. “Judge Zecht of House Zecht, though he be the youngest of the Magisters, he is very well to do.” She makes an attempt to crane her head and look at him, batting her lashes hopefully.

The once monk shrugs. “Zecht is Zecht. I know only of minute surface proceedings, lady Ioanna.”

Her face falls dramatically, but she obediently turns back, echoing his words earlier. “What brings them here?”

Vayne does not get a chance to respond, and indeed, he was not sure with what to say as he had no knowledge of it either. 

The soldiers let out a group holler, and both Zecht and Bergan respond in kind, waving their hands in greeting. They do not act as though they are amongst betters, indeed, such familiarity of Humes makes the watching Solidor feel as though he is invading on a private affair. They thump each other's backs, and all begin to talk at once, Zecht being dragged into the centermost position once his helmet is removed and is situated alongside Bergan's upon a bench nearby.

“Are they Zecht's men?”

Vayne makes a soft sound. “I am unsure, but that would seem to be the way of it.”

Ioanna nods, and the young man again twitches his nose as several hairs curl against his face. “They do seem to pay particular attention to him.”

The two spectators jump as Bergan's voice roars out, snapping out any other sound and freezing all activity.

“ _Uncouth lot, shut your mouths!_ ”

The sway of the crowd shifts, and all turn to face him. For once, Vayne and Ioanna both can hear the words of a single being, though the sun continuously beats down despite the demands of a Judge Magister.

Before the group of soldiers milling about their leader, Bergan strides, his posture confident. “Give me your best man, Zecht, that I may beat his face into the ground.”

A raucous laugh snaps out, “Oh aye, and then you'll be peeved to find out he's a lady, and that's actually  _your_ face in the dirt, lordship.”

The ripple of laughter in the crowd doesn't dissuade the older Judge, and Vayne finds it strange that the figure he knows is Zecht remains silent, if not agreeing with his men by remaining silent.

Bergan comes to a harsh halt, gauntleted hands firmly at his waist, defiant to the end to get the fight he is clearly bucking for. “I'm embarrassed for you, Zecht. Not a one wants at least a  _chance_ ?”

Zecht finally speaks, turning round to instead catch the attention of those that follow him in the 9 th . “What say you then, lads? Got a response?”

Vayne's brows rise. “He cannot - “

Ioanna wriggles in his grip, but Vayne does not continue or end his sentence. “Cannot what, my lord?” she presses, curiosity tinging her voice. 

He adjusts himself around her, lips thin. “Though Zecht is to know his men, he queries them for their best that he may have missed. I had not thought Zecht would rely so much on others...”

“Is it inappropriate?”

He shakes his dark curly mass of hair, brushing it reflexively back again as it falls from behind his ears. “It is...unusual.” How does he vocalize how strange it feels, to watch another in charge rely upon the voices of others when so many have determinedly destroyed the sounds of other voices in favor of their own?

Ioanna does not get a chance to respond, the crowd below shifting, already dividing themselves up, pacing from Zecht and Bergan with practiced ease. They whittle their own numbers down, and in the end, it is a tall man they push forward with confidence.

Vayne's scowl deepens further, recognizing him from before as one of those that darted in the crowd earlier, between the tangles of soldiers and  _directed_ them, more mentor than teacher. He was barely the age of many Vayne would have picked over him. He was also irritatingly familiar, but the young man could not place it.

Bergan's laugh interrupted his thoughts. “And who is this dog, then, eh?” Several strong steps and the younger man offered up had to take a step back as the fully suited Judge strode into his space.

If he responded, Vayne did not hear it, but the older Judge laughed again, shaking his head.

“Gabranth, eh?”

Ioanna practically leapt from the Solidor's lap, scrambling to the dresser where the night before she had deposited a pair of opera glasses, rushing back and propping her arm up to look through them and down at the figure identified by a name alone.

The sound she made alarmed Vayne, and he flushed in confusion at the conflicting response he had to it. “W-what is it? Does something distress you??”

Down came the glasses, her face flushed and her expression decidedly shocked. “You do not know who  _Gabranth_ is?”

He resisted the urge to be sarcastic. “No, I do not. Please enlighten me as to what makes a singular Hume so divergent from all the rest.”

Her olive skin paled and she became shy, teeth worrying her lower lip. “He is Gabranth - “ 

Vayne felt his eyebrow raising.

She continued, eyes casting downwards. “He is from Landis, and like all those Landisians whom have been integrated into the Empire, your excellency, he is – he is  _astounding_ .”

The young prince still waited, though he did glance over at the field where Bergan seemed to be engaged in a monologue of a sort, perhaps trying to impress upon this poor Gabranth why he was incapable in an ironic odd dichotomy of what was occurring in the manor overlooking the event where Vayne himself was supposed to learn how he could not ignore the man that no one else could stop talking about.

As if sensing his disbelief, Ioanna changed tactics. “You are aware that Landisians are...unusual men, yes? They were all equals, even – even - “ such a stain of color in her cheeks made the young prince realize she was talking about the inequality of the sexes in Archadia.

He nodded gently, trying to show he understood about such a delicate and sometimes deadly topic.

She inhaled deeply and continued speaking in a rush, “ - they are  _all_ equals, my lord, and the men are as skilled as the servants in Archadia – gentlemen all,  _homely_ and  _so handsome_ – my lord should see them, tall and pale, so many of their number with hair like fire or hand-spun gold - “ she stammered more, hands raising over her mouth - “n-not that my lord is not beautiful, it is merely that in Archadia such features...like my own are so uncommon - “

She went as white as a sheet as Vayne chuckled, shaking his head. He still smiled when he gently traced her down-curved nose. “My lady, I take no offense. I admit, I see much merit as well. Perhaps I shall make pursuit of such Landisians as well in due time, no?”

Poor Ioanna, she looked nervous still, awaiting a usual blow that she had become so familiar with in Vayne's elder brother, Adelaid. He continued on, hoping to ease her fears before they became his own.

“I am not displeased with your telling; shall we invite this Gabranth to join us, my lady? At least so I may have the undisputed pleasure of marking his quiddities from my own?”

The color in her face returned and she laughed behind her soft hands that he kissed gently. He had no interest in hurting her, being his brother, leaving marks so cruel. He gestured to the window. “Come, let us watch.”


End file.
